Hit and miss
by Alecto Perdita
Summary: (Post-Reichenbach) The five times that Sherlock almost ran into John around the world, and the one time he actually did.
1. One: Tokyo, Japan

1: Tokyo, Japan  
_May 24, 2012_

The first time it happens, Sherlock has only been away from London for three weeks. He is in Tokyo chasing a lead that would hopefully lead him to Lestrade's intended assassin. He grits his teeth and pushes through the throngs of people flooding the sidewalk. His attention is glued to his target, who is similarly navigating the crowd some five yards ahead of him.

When he finally registers the commotion coming from behind, he has all of five seconds to brace against the body barreling past him (Japanese man in his twenties; hair last bleached almost a month ago, roots showing; smelling strongly of fudge). The momentum from the push catches Sherlock by surprise, spinning him into a group of teenage girls. His ears are ringing when his elbows and knees hit the pavement— hard.

Sherlock turns his head as a rush of wind cards through his dyed ginger hair. From his vantage point on the ground, he catches a glimpse of well-worn jeans and the hem of a cable knit jumper stained with a spot of iodine.

_John?_

Sherlock sits up in time to see the profile of a blond man be swallowed up by the crowd. The man is shouting in fluent Japanese, "Wait! We just want to help!"

It can't be John (his John should still be safely ensconced within the walls of 221B under Mycroft's ever vigilant surveillance). His John can't possibly be running through the streets of Tokyo like a madman.

His heart sinks back into his stomach. Having lost track of his target, Sherlock returns to his empty hotel room and tries his best to delete the incident.


	2. Two: Chicago, USA

2: Chicago, IL, United States  
_October 31, 2012_

In Chicago, he buys a .32 caliber revolver out of an addict's boot in an abandoned carpark. During his first week of ownership, he only loads bullets into the first three chambers— three bullets for the three assassins that threatened the three most important people in his life. The gun's weight is heavy against the small of his back, and it handles nothing like John's.

It's been five more months. Five months since he was forced to flee London in disgrace.

That's five months where Sherlock has worked without any knowledge of what's going on back home. (Have John's limp and tremors returned? Is New Scotland Yard still out of their depth? [Of course they were.]) It's better this way— he can't afford the distractions or sentiment. Thankfully, Mycroft never tries to offer him any news either.

Bringing down the assassin sent after Mrs. Hudson (Freddy "the Screw" Costello; thirty-nine; Chicago native; mob enforcer) will not be easy. This one has local mafia ties. Sherlock bides his time, watches from the shadow, sows seeds of doubt, and plants evidence. It all goes according to plan, except for the part where Freddy escapes police custody as they're taking him in. He curses the Chicago PD's incompetence.

It seems that no matter where he goes in the world, the police are equally hopeless.

Sherlock clears the building from which he tracked Freddy by sliding down a fire escape and takes after his target. But Freddy isn't nearly as stupid as he appeared when he made a beeline toward North Halsted Street.

One minute, Sherlock had a clear line of sight of the bulky tattooed man. But the next thing he knows he's being assaulted by ear-splitting music and throngs of imbeciles dressed in costume. A group of drunken revelers stumble into his path, one of whom— a man clad in a painfully inaccurate replica of firefighter— grinned salaciously at Sherlock. He glares until they go away. He glares and wishes they would all go away as easily. His concealed revolver digs into the small of his sweat-slick back. Its presence is a sobering reminder— an anchor to ground him amidst the mania around him.

The police on scene for the parade are beginning to fan out. Someone must have called in Freddy's escape. They are never going to find the hitman in this crowd, especially when all their backs are turned to the fugitive buying a Halloween mask from a street vendor.

Sherlock creeps in closer, giving Freddy a chance to think he's in the clear and to let his guard down. He carefully draws his firearm out and holds it tight against his side to avoid detection. His sweaty palms make it hard to keep his grip. Though his resolve is solid and steely, Sherlock doesn't particularly want to shoot him. He moves ever closer. It will have to be at point blank range. Anything farther in distance may result in collateral damage. Sherlock can already imagine it: the gun's recoil jarring the bones in his arm and the splatter of blood (warm and wet) across his front.

There is nothing more he wishes for in that moment than John's unfaltering moral compass and his steady gun hand.

Then Freddy turns, his eyes behind the holes in the mask flying to Sherlock's revolver, and goes for his own concealed weapon.

"He has a gun!" Sherlock shouts preemptively.

Pandemonium sweeps through the scene. Everyone starts moving at once, but no one has any ideas where to run or who has the weapon. And they're all getting in his way and preventing him from reaching his target. Sherlock curses the simple-mindedness of the masses. At the very least, Freddy seems as perturbed as Sherlock by the panic surrounding them.

Sherlock ducks behind someone dressed as a giant iPhone. If he can get the shot off now, it may work to his advantage. So close. He can almost taste iron on the tip of his tongue.

Then someone wearing the unexpectedly accurate uniform of an eighteenth century British naval officer tackles Freddy to the pavement. The two men vanish under the crowd and a shot discharges into the air. Sherlock cannot fight the tide of people trying to flee the scene.

When he risks a glance back, he sees Freddy pinned to the ground in a proper choke-hold. (A flash— a vision of John apprehending their fleeing suspect.) The blond naval officer is joined quickly by his friends (a woman and a man— a couple— costumed as pirates and another tall, reedy man dressed in tweed— for which "hipster" is apparently the proper term). The woman delivers a swift kick to Freddy's shin and Sherlock cannot hear or lip read her words from this distance. They are swallowed up by a group of descending officers.

Sherlock wipes his gun for fingerprints, before tossing it into the Chicago River. It sinks like a stone.


	3. Three: Heidelberg, Germany

3: Heidelberg, Germany**  
**_December 24, 2012_

It's a white Christmas. Much like the last one he spent at Baker Street (with Mrs. Hudson and Lestrade and Molly and John— and there was Irene and her— no, irrelevant to the task at hand).

Sherlock pops his coat collar as a shield against the icy cold, and snow flurries cling to his eyelashes and sleeve. This coat is a poor substitute for his beloved Belstaff. Then again, everything _now_is a parody of his life from _before._

He leans against the alcove of a building and smokes his fag. The acrid taste and burn does little to warm him. Especially when he unwittingly thinks back to the low-tar one offered by Mycroft. Utterly vile— not to mention the cigarette itself.

Mycroft will want him to check in soon. Sherlock will put it off. Until after the new year if he can manage it.

Across the street, his target exits a row of flats. Sherlock stomps out his smoke and follows. As predicted, the target is headed to his local just a few blocks away.

But something is wrong— out of place. Sherlock's mind screeches noisily as it races to reconcile the discrepancies. For one, the 1960 British police box standing outside the pub across the street.

It hadn't been there yesterday or the day before.

Another group exits the pub just as his target enters. A red-headed woman, who doesn't look dressed for the cold, simultaneously leaning against a tall, brown-haired man and another shorter, blond man clad in a garish Christmas jumper. The last man following behind them bellows out a Christmas carol in a mix of German and something entirely unfamiliar to Sherlock.

The woman picks at the jumper's hem and declares so loudly that the words can be heard across the street. "It's hideous!"

They all laugh, and Sherlock categorizes the high and low registers of the sound, tries to isolate and pinpoint what he remembers of John's laughter. His feet move forward before his mind can register the action. Then a lorry screams from his right, forcing him to jump back to avoid an inconvenient accident. When the vehicle finally clears the stretch of street, the pavement outside the pub is empty.

The blue police box is nowhere to be seen.


	4. Four: Dublin, Ireland

4: Dublin, Ireland  
_December 31, 2012_

Incident number four (as Sherlock has begun labeling them in his internal file system) comes immediately on the tail of incident number three.

New Year's Eve is the exact opposite of Christmas. It's loud and crowded, and a portion of the people are half-arse drunk with an hour to go to midnight. Sherlock hates everything about the celebration. He wouldn't even be out here if his paranoid source hadn't insisted on meeting tonight of all nights.

His trip to Heidelberg paid off. He has a new trail to follow. Someone is trying to slide into the power vacuum left behind by dear Jim and seize his network by the throat.

Sherlock cannot allow that to happen.

Sherlock waits at the designated meeting spot for almost an hour, surrounded by cheerful holiday revelers. His source is over half an hour late. Whether he spooked, was compromised, or worse, a trap mattered not. Sherlock needs to disappear again and leave the country.

The countdown to midnight starts as a low murmur, catching Sherlock by surprise.

_9_

He angles himself into a relatively isolated spot.

_8_

He has no need for others to greet him with good cheer.

_7_

Wasted days coming to Dublin for nothing!

_6_

How can it be a better new year when he still cannot return to his beloved London?

_5_

While everyone he cares about remains in danger because the spider's web still holds strong?

_4_

Intolerable.

_3_

Hateful.

_2_

"This is madness!" John's voice, prickling at the edge of Sherlock's hearing, shouts over the humdrum. The answering shout immediately following is lost in the roar of the next number.

_1_

Sherlock whips around, trying to pinpoint the source. John can't be here. He can't.

_Happy New Year!_

The dark sky overhead explodes in a kaleidoscope of light and colors. Sherlock may not be an expert in fireworks, but he knows that array of colors should not be possible within their chemical spectrum. Least of all, so close to the spectators. He suspects he is one of the few besides technicians to notice something amiss.

The sparks rain down in an incandescent shower. Contact with his exposed skin sends a jolt of warmth down his spine. Doom and gloom fades into the back of his mind, until it's all but a whisper.

Safe, for the first time in months.

In the golden afterglow, Sherlock meets the eyes of someone in the crowd— someone who looks spectacularly like John, at least from a distance. But the other man's gaze slides straight past Sherlock without recognition. Someone else— a tall, dark-haired man— sidled up to the first and blocked the bright emerging smile from view. And when Sherlock blinks (flinching at sudden explosion of the next set of fireworks), they're both gone altogether.


	5. Five: Miami, USA

5: Miami, FL, United States  
_March 18, 2013_

After New Year's Eve, Sherlock can no longer fight off the temptation to check in on John. He easily hacks into Mycroft's surveillance server for Baker Street several times until Mycroft takes to sending him the access information.

Sherlock ignores the texts.

His senses are beginning to fail him. Because John barely leaves 221B, much less England herself. Sherlock knows this from the hours of surveillance footage he's watched. John had not been in Tokyo or Chicago or Heidelberg or Dublin.

It's homesickness, Sherlock thinks with no small amount of disgust with himself. Homesickness and nothing more.

He squints against the bright sun, sweat trickling down the back of his neck. He loathes it all: the heat, the humidity, and the city's loud, garish beach culture. Worse, it's apparently the height of something called Spring Break. He's already been inappropriately propositioned by three girls at least a decade younger than him and then some. Little about Miami had changed since he was last here years ago, dodging out of another round of rehab and his brother's ever-growing reach (because as much as Sherlock hates Florida, Mycroft hates it even more).

The damp shirt clinging to his back is a testimony to just how much his body disagrees with the climate. His mind is sluggish from the heat and sleep deprivation. But he can't stop or rest now. Even the most minor setback at this point can mean losing Colonel Sebastian Moran's scent. His trail is cold enough as it is.

Sherlock ducks into the first coffee shop he passes (not Starbucks) and queues up behind a line of college students and moms with screaming infants. Everyone seems intent on getting their drink and going, as evidenced by the storefront of mostly empty seats and tables. He spots one in the corner, half-hidden by a large potted plant, that he can claim. It is sufficiently secluded and far enough from the only other seated people in the cafe.

As the queue advances toward the counter, Sherlock passes the couple with their heads bent together conspiratorially. They are poring over identical-looking blue books and comparing notes.

("Have we done the man-eating orchards yet?"

"Nope, what about the planet of the space elves?"

"Elves?"

"They called themselves the Nox.")

The man looks up sharply, as if he just remembered something— and Sherlock realizes he's seen that face once before in Chicago. He glances around the cafe before asking his companion. "Where's John gone?"

"Don't worry, sweetie, he's just popped into one of the shops down the street. He should be back any moment soon."

Sherlock knows it's a one-in-a-million possibility— that the fact he even dares to hope is ridiculous enough. Yet his breath catches in his throat and he stands at the precipice of some revelation. Meanwhile, the barista taps her foot impatiently as her jaw bounces up and down to the rhythm of chewing bubblegum. She's waiting for his order (coffee, black with two sugars and a shot of espresso for good measure).

Instead, Sherlock removes himself from the temptation by leaving the shop without buying anything.


	6. Plus One: Rio de Janeiro, Brazil

+1: Rio de Janeiro, Brazil  
_June 3, 2013_

It's hard to believe the day could get so much worse. Moran is being held up by business elsewhere and isn't going to arrive in Rio until later this month.

The time difference between Rio and London is two hours. John is rising from bed late, ten o'clock London time. John shuffles into view of the kitchen camera (the kitchen is alien territory now— with its table long cleared of chemistry equipment and the refrigerator devoid of scientific experimentation), feet dragging as a prelude to a "bad day" and the resurgence of that hateful limp. Sherlock doubts John will leave the flat at all today. His forecast of not-so-good further cements when John accidentally makes two cups of coffee. A tremor shakes John's entire left arm as he picks up the extra cup and hurls it at the wall.

Sherlock tries to focus on the splatter pattern left behind by the brew, but he can't delete the twisted expression consuming John's face. All of which is being streamed in HD quality video and full color with agonizing clarity.

He slams the lid of his laptop shut and reaches for his cigarettes. He'll go mad if he doesn't do anything in the meantime.

Thankfully, there is a mystery afoot in the city. British tourists are disappearing along a strip of hotels down by Ipanema for the last two weeks. There are no ransom demands, but no bodies either. Local authorities are predictably stumped.

It might provide a much need diversion for at least a few hours.

Sherlock dons a t-shirt with the Union Jack and a pair of obnoxiously bright yellow shorts before setting out. On his way to the beach, he purchases an English to Portuguese phrasebook to complete the image.

That had been earlier today— before he had been ambushed by whoever followed him down the beach. The angle and intensity of light filtering in through a window suggests it is now late afternoon into early evening.

He is not alone in the room. Several of the missing tourists are unconscious and bound by shackles chained to the wall itself. Sherlock tugs his chain and finds neither any give nor structural weakness.

He's not going anywhere.

The voices that had tugged at the edge of his consciousness resumes, rapidly exchanging words in fluent Portuguese. The door bursts open and a tall, weedy man clad in tweed glides through it. He is followed by a much less happy-looking man brandishing a weapon (his body posture says weapon but it looks like no firearm Sherlock has ever seen).

"You should really let these people go. I make a much more valuable hostage." The first man declares with no small amount of pep.

The one holding the weapon tightens his grip and re-adjusts his aim. "Tell me where it is so I can get off this sorry excuse for a class three civilized planet."

"Did you really think you'd get away with it? It's only a matter of time before the full might of the Nalchett Assembly descends on you. They're the sort to shoot first and ask questions later. And this," the tweed-clad man gestures to the rest of the room. "Will only compound the charges."

"Tell me or else."

"Or what? You'll shoot me?"

"No, I'll shoot your companion." The weapon now pointed at another man chained to the wall opposite of Sherlock.

The man in question jolts back, rattling his chains. He glares at the tall man and says, "Doctor, this is the last time I play bait! The last time!"

"Not now, Rory," says the tall man apparently called the Doctor.

Then the world goes mad as the laws of physics suddenly become mere suggestions. An ear-splitting whoosh fills the air as a blue police box slowly materializes into existence in the middle of the room. The second man unloads an energy shot at the box, but it dissipates against a force shield like in one of John's science fiction shows. Finally, John himself storms in through the door with his Sig Sauer in hand. Naturally, he plants himself immediately in front of Rory, who is currently unable to defend himself or get away.

"Drop it!" John warns the hostile man in Portuguese.

But he turns the weapon on John instead and Sherlock's stomach plummets into the soles of his feet. (No no no, John, you're supposed to be safe in London— you shouldn't be here— why are you here?)

But John is still quicker and the better shot. He fires, burying a bullet in the man's gun arm and causing him to drop the weapon. The blue box had completely solidified and out comes a young red-haired woman. She heads straight for their kidnapper and slaps something around his wrists.

"No!" He vanishes in a cascade of light that beams up through the ceiling.

"Well, I'd say that went pretty well." The Doctor declares in English with a bright smile. "Although, John, you know how I feel about the gun."

"I think Amy would be cross if I let him shoot her husband." John retorts, slips his gun into a holster, and drops to his knees to check over Rory. "How do you feel, Rory?"

The Doctor sighs and draws a pen-like device from his inside jacket pocket. The tip lights up green and emits a high-pitched whine, and unlocked shackles fall away.

The redhead— the aforementioned Amy married to the Rory chained to the wall— wastes no time before fussing over her husband. The rest of their conversation, now being conducted in English, washes over him in a wave of white noise. He doesn't— can't understand what they're talking about.

Because John is in the same room, shining a penlight into Rory's eyes and checking for a concussion. But his back is mostly turned to Sherlock, so he can't see John's face. He can't read how or why John came to be in Brazil, or the very nature of his relationship with these people.

The Doctor swoops into his line of vision, blocking John from sight. He points and clicks, and the shackles around Sherlock's wrists pop open.

"There we go. Nothing to worry—" He suddenly stops short when he glances up at Sherlock's face through his floppy fringes. "Oh dear, it's you. Why are you here? You're not supposed to be here. I don't think—"

"Something wrong?" Apparently content with her husband's condition, Amy starts to cross the room.

The tall man stands abruptly, as if to block Sherlock from view. "Nothing! Nothing at all. John, can we talk outside for a moment?"

"What? Why?"

Amy stops next to the Doctor and peers down at Sherlock with curiosity before her eyes widen in shock. Interesting, she knows who Sherlock is. Judging by the backwards glance she tosses over her shoulder, she also knows something of his relationship with John. "It's you! You're—"

John is coming closer. "What are the two of you going on about?"

Sherlock last dyed his hair ginger almost two months ago— his roots have long grown out. Despite his current attire, there can be no doubt that he is Sherlock Holmes. Not that he wants to hide or run away right now. His (multiple, seemingly impossible) questions demand (logical— rational— Euclidean) responses.

Regardless of the rising panic on Amy's face and the worry on the Doctor's, Sherlock raises to his feet. "John," he greets his old friend.

"Sherlock?" John freezes mid-stride, takes a shuddering gasp of air, and stumbles back. He is fortunate that Rory is right behind him to catch him. John turns his head to side, unwilling to look directly at Sherlock as he tries to regain his composure. "Doctor, what's today's date?"

"June third, 2013."

"Then that can't be Sherlock. Sherlock's dead. Who— what is he?"

Sherlock struggles to swallow past the lump lodged in his throat. This isn't what he envisioned for their reunion. This isn't even on the right continent. "It's me, John."

"Nope," John's eyes remained firmly shut. "Sherlock is dead. I saw it. I don't know who or what you are, but you're not him."

The denial pierces the mediastinum between his fifth and sixth rib with a force near physical. Clearly laid over this John's face are the same lines of grief haunting Sherlock from earlier surveillance footage. "John, don't be obtuse—"

"Doctor, tell me it's not him." His friend doggedly insists.

The Doctor whips out his pen device again and sticks it in Sherlock's face. Much like before, it lights up and whines and whirls. But it's for show because Sherlock can already read the answer in the Doctor's grimly furrowed brow.

"It's him."

Now that that's out of the way. "John, what are you doing here—"

"No," John finally glances in his direction before redirecting his gaze again. "Shut up. Just shut up. You don't get to talk— you don't get to ask questions first. You don't get to pop out of nowhere after pretending to be _dead_ for—" He chokes and Sherlock feels a corresponding tug in his chest.

The Doctor steps away and approaches John with arms extending in an invitation to a hug. "John—"

John's face goes slack in a vacant expression seen only when he's truly furious. He channels his growing ire in the Doctor's direction. "You knew, you must have known he was alive this entire time and you didn't say anything. You could have taken me to find him, but you didn't. You purposely left me in the dark! What was even the point of inviting me to come along then? Did you pity me, poor old, broken John Watson? Thought you'd offer a pick-me-up after I was... abandoned by the great Sherlock Holmes?"

Sherlock supposes the expression that the Doctor now wears can only be called "puppy-dog eyes."

"Oh, John, don't be like that! I didn't know you were, well, _you_ when we first met. I already thought you were fantastic, but then to find out you're the John Watson? That's downright brilliant! I knew I just had to have you then!"

"Doctor!" The redhead reprimands while rolling her eyes. "Do you even listen to yourself when you say things like that?"

"What? It's true."

"Maybe we should take this somewhere more private?" Rory gives pointed looks at all the other hostages that are slowly beginning to regain consciousness.

"Alright, everyone into the TARDIS," The Doctor bounces over to the blue box and pushes the door in to open it. "Including you, Sherlock."

Amy and Rory file in without complaint. John lingers behind, clearly at war with himself over whether or not to follow the Doctor's instructions. But he soon straightens his posture and marches into the box as well. Only Sherlock and the Doctor are left standing outside the box that can't physically fit five full-grown adults, but which no one has acted like would be a problem.

"Come along, Sherlock!" The Doctor winks and ducks through the door.

Sherlock quickly rounds the side of the box. He's fairly sure it's the same box he saw in Germany. Though he would love for more time to study this strange contraption, he does not want to risk being left behind. The door is ajar and its hinges are on the outside and the sign says to pull. Sherlock shakes his head to fend off the stream of data assaulting him. He pushes the door further open and the world drops and widens and rises out from under his feet.

"I know, it's bigger on the inside," proudly boasts the Doctor on the other side of the entrance. His expression turns crestfallen when Sherlock chooses not to respond at all.

In the center of this impossibly large room is a circular control panel raised up on a dais. Through the platform's grill, Sherlock can make out an indistinguishable nest of wires and tubes. The column rises until it meets the ceiling high above. The Doctor flicks a series of switches and hits a mess of buttons in a seemingly random sequence, but his fluid motions belie practiced ease.

The lurching and the sensation of moving stops as quickly as it started up.

Sherlock climbs the metal stairs, slowly making his way to where John stands flanked by the married couple. The rage has abated for now, but the strained set of John's lips and shoulders still speaks volumes.

The words "I'm sorry" now hang on the tip of his tongue.

"I've parked us in orbit," the Doctor declares. "If you should need some time to talk."

The hum of machinery in the background is almost as loud as Sherlock's heartbeat pumping in his ear.

The Doctor coughs awkwardly. "Time for introductions then? Sherlock, you already know John. That is Amy Pond and that's her husband, Rory Pond. And I'm the Doctor! Amy, Rory, this is the great detective, Sherlock Holmes. And you, Sherlock Holmes, are inside the TARDIS, time and rela—"

Sherlock quickly tunes out the rest of the Doctor's ramblings as it devolves into a torrent of indistinguishable gibberish.

Amy glares, full of righteous anger, while Rory waves sheepishly. Their loyalties are all too easily sorted. But at least, they make sense— on the most part. This Doctor? Not so much. The man practically vibrates with barely suppressed glee when Sherlock considers him again. The discrepancies clash together— like pieces of a jigsaw puzzle that don't quite fit.

It's unnerving.

And it's giving Sherlock a headache.

The Doctor's excitement suddenly gives way to a grim sense of almost-pity. Sherlock almost wants to turn around and storm out. But where will he find his answers then?

"Come along, Ponds, I think John and Sherlock need some privacy."

"Doctor, I'm not sure—" The red-headed woman starts.

Her husband grabs her arm and the Doctor takes the other. Together, they hoist her off her feet, remove themselves from the room, and vanish down a corridor (exactly what are the dimensions of this thing?).

Meanwhile, John leans back against the railing and crosses his arms over his chest. He alternates between being unable to take his eyes off Sherlock and being unable to stand the sight of him.

"This is not how I envisioned our reunion." Sherlock cannot stop the bitterness pouring out.

John snaps. "You manipulative wanker!" he roars. "How _you_ envisioned it? You played us all like fools, Sherlock. We— we mourned you. All this time, we've been fighting to clear your name and honor your memory, and you were out there laughing it up."

"I had no choice! Moriarty made it abundantly clear that none of you would never be safe as long as I lived."

John's nostrils flare and his eyes glint like hard flint. "Moriarty is dead. I know that for a fact. Mycroft told me about how he shot himself on the roof that day. I had the Doctor help me confirm it just to be sure. Moriarty ceased to be a threat to anyone the moment he put that bullet in his brain!"

The volume of Sherlock's voice rises— as if in attempt to fill all the cold empty space in the room. "You insist on maintaining this fiction that Moriarty is a mere man. He may be dead, but his network and his associates live on. I had gotten too big and I needed to step back into the shadows. Faking my death provided the perfect cover to unravel the rest of his organization."

John clenches his fists until his knuckles are white with rage. "Did you even plan to come back at all? Or was this the plan? To run away from all your problems, because your ego couldn't take it, and leave the rest of us to clean up your mess?"

Sherlock bristles at John's accusations. They hurt— so much, so very much. Though his leaving was not a sacrifice made gladly, it was done willingly. "You're one to talk. I'm gone for not a year and you've already absconded with another madman."

"A madman and his fantastical box." The Doctor piques from a hallway shooting off from the main control room. He's immediately and loudly shushed by his other two companions.

So much for the illusion of privacy. Sherlock wants to glare at them— to tell them to stop eavesdropping— but he can't catch sight of them. He forges on. "The plan was always to return to London. I only wish to maintain the deception for as long as it takes to rid the world of Moriarty's legacy. I'm close, John, so close to finishing. Only Moran is left. He'll be here in a matter of days. Then... then we can go home."

"Sherlock, it's been over two years for me."

The statement makes Sherlock pause and really look at John— at the deepened lines around the edge of his mouth and dark blue eyes. This is not the same John currently in mourning that Sherlock remotely monitors through hidden cameras. This is a John who has emerged on the other side of that canyon of grief with wounds scabbed over and still healing. Effectively, a John who has ceased to wait.

"How is that possible?" Sherlock is poleaxed. "How?"

There is a flash of exasperation in John's face. "You didn't listen to a thing the Doctor said, did you?" John asks with a sigh. Sherlock wants to distill it and revel in the familiarity. "T.A.R.D.I.S., Time And Relative Dimension In Space, a time machine and a spaceship."

John strolls over to the doors they first came through and throws them both open. Outside, the earth (chemical composition: 32.1% iron, 30.1% oxygen, 15.1% silicon, 13.9% magnesium, 2.9% sulfur, 1.8% nickel, 1.5% calcium, 1.4% aluminum, remaining 1.2% consisting of trace amounts of other elements—) floats like a giant marble in a sea of black.

"Do you regret deleting the solar system now?"

John and he share a brief smile, which fades gradually instead of abruptly. They fall silent as Sherlock considers the moon peeking out around the curvature of the planet. He can hardly argue when the evidence is right before him. "And that would make this Doctor an alien?"

"Time traveling alien. Amy and Rory are from Leadworth though."

"And you're from the year 2014?"

John nods. "Almost 2015 when I left."

"Then I," Sherlock tears his eyes off the bright planet and licks his dried, chapped lips. "Believe I understand why you're so cross with me. For that and more, I owe you a thousand apologies, John."

His best friend's expression visibly softens. It's still a long way from full-fledged forgiveness, but it's a start. "Don't think that this means you've got off scot-free, but why don't you start at the beginning?"

The End

* * *

Special thanks to M for beta'ing and cheerleading as always. Believe it or not, this fic actually started in March of last year and went through much growing pains in its initial inception as a story concept. So glad to finally get it finished and out there! (Now I can go back to gnashing my teeth over Burden of Proof).

And thank YOU for reading! ^_^


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